The Night Crew

itself was no longer than a dollar bill, and only half as wide, and it fluttered, twisted, and landed behind Jason’s leg.
    Jason stayed with the body for five seconds, zooming close; and Creek was still on the scene when Jason turned, almost stumbled, looked down, looked up and around, then stooped to pick something up.
    ‘‘That’s it,’’ Harper said. He stood and turned away from the television and said, ‘‘There’s no connection: none. We’ve been chasing a wild goose. Goddammit, I’m dumb.
    Goddammit.’’
    ‘‘God,’’ Louis said. ‘‘We should’ve looked . . .’’
    ‘‘No connection. I didn’t see how there could be no connection. I thought Jacob had to be part of something bigger, that it couldn’t be that simple, that he just took some bad shit and flew off a ledge . . .’’ The words were coming in a bitter torrent. ‘‘He was my son. If he was dead, it had to be important . Instead, it’s just . . . this fucking everyday ratshit life. No reason, no plot, nothing important, he’s just fucking dead.’’
    ‘‘Ah, God, Jake.’’
    ‘‘What can I do? I thought I wanted to kill the guys involved, and it turns out, nobody really even knew what they were doing. So I break a guy’s legs . . . Fuck it,’’ he said. ‘‘Let’s go see Creek.’’ Creek was dopey, but awake. He smiled, a lopsided smile, and mumbled something.
    ‘‘He’s much better,’’ Glass said, almost domestic. Anna thought he still looked caved-in. They sat for a while, Anna and Pam talking at Creek like he was a child. Harper sat with his elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. Anna wasn’t sure how much Creek understood of what they were saying, and she was as worried about Harper as she was about Creek. When Creek drifted off to sleep, they left.
    In the hall, Harper said, ‘‘I’m sorta impressed by Pam. She’s really taking care of him. How long had she known him? Couple days?’’
    ‘‘Creek makes an impression,’’ Anna said grudgingly. She didn’t want to, but she was starting to like Glass, brittle as she was.
    Harper said, ‘‘What next?’’
    Anna shrugged. ‘‘Well . . . I don’t know.’’
    He picked up her tone and said, ‘‘Listen. I’m sticking with you. No way you’re gonna get rid of me.’’
    ‘‘You really don’t have any obligation . . .’’
    ‘‘Yes, I do.’’
    ‘‘No, you don’t.’’
    ‘‘Look, if you don’t know what I’m talking about, then you’ve really got your head up your ass,’’ he snarled at her.
    She thought about that a minute and then said, ‘‘We go to BJ’s and start tracking the sex story. But that’s later on—it doesn’t get started until late. Until then, I don’t know. I’m numb.’’
    ‘‘So am I.’’
    ‘‘The tape . . . God, Jake, I’m so sorry.’’
    ‘‘Yeah . . . I wonder, if you don’t mind . . . could you drive me somewhere?’’
    ‘‘Anywhere,’’ she said.
    ‘‘I want to go hit some golf balls.’’
    ‘‘What?’’
    He didn’t look at her, just bobbed his head: ‘‘Yeah. That’s what I want to do.’’

sixteen

    Anna drove to a range east of Pasadena, a dusty place on the side of a mountain where, Harper said, ‘‘You can hit from real grass.’’
    ‘‘That’s important?’’
    ‘‘Essential,’’ he said.
    The parking lot was up the hillside from the range itself, and they walked down a flight of stairs to the small clubhouse. The owner was a high-school friend of Harper’s, happy to see him.
    ‘‘This is Larry,’’ Harper said to Anna. ‘‘Larry, this is Anna.’’
    ‘‘Pleased to make your acquaintance,’’ Larry said, his eyes shifting from Anna to Jake with some private amusement. He wouldn’t take money for the range balls: offered as many as Harper wanted to hit.
    ‘‘Do you want to hit a few?’’ Harper asked Anna.
    ‘‘No. I’ll get a coffee and sit and watch . . .’’
    There were a dozen golfers at the range, banging luminescent yellow balls down three hundred yards of sorry grass and desert rut. A fifty-foot-wide strip of longer, slightly healthier turf made up the teeing area. Larry got a plastic chair and a cup of coffee for Anna, and she settled in as Harper began hitting the balls. He hit a six iron for fifteen minutes, one ball after another, like an automaton, his swing seemingly slow, almost lazy. Easy as it seemed, the balls rocketed away in long, soft, left-curving parabolas.
    As she watched him, she realized he